Probability
by RavenclawGenius
Summary: HGBZ: Statistically, their relationship was highly improbable. Blaise would know; he was a very calculating man, and he knew everything there was to know about numbers.


Blaise felt her body melt against his. She was familiar, yet fresh, and still oh-so-sexy. He'd probably not have been one to say such things several months ago, and in the face of the public he'd likely deny it even now, but secretly – and within the privacy of his own mind – he could acknowledge it; acknowledge _her_.

She was growing weary of the covertness of it all. She understood that it was uncomfortable for him, and could abide by his wishes for a time – but his time was quickly running up. As disastrous and detrimental as it would be for him to stay with her, he found himself beyond unwilling to give her up. Not now. Not when she'd opened up to him, and certainly not after he'd reluctantly, yet inescapably opened up in return.

No. He _needed_ Hermione Granger. He needed her in his life.

But right now, he needed Hermione Granger in his _bed_, and she simply wasn't moving quickly enough.

Her mouth slanted under his as she reached up and tangled her fingers in the black tresses of his hair. Her lips were impossibly soft – but that only made sense, as the rest of her was so incredibly soft as well.

Statistically, their relationship was highly improbable. Blaise would know; he was a very calculating man, and he knew everything there was to know about numbers. He'd made a living from Arithmancy calculations. He'd always been talented in the way of mathematics, and figuring statistics was second nature to him.

It made no logical sense that Hermione Granger – intelligent, _drop-dead-gorgeous_ Granger of the Golden Trio – would spend her nights writhing in his bed and her days innocently fending off the questions of her friends regarding her nighttime partner. They had yet to confirm that a nighttime partner existed, of course, but it was really quite obvious. Blaise couldn't remember the last evening she had spent away from him, and so it made perfect sense that – after making so many attempts to reach their friend during the later hours of the night – they would begin to grow suspicious of her lack of presence in her own home.

He still did not feel comfortable exploiting their relationship, for reasons that even he could not fathom.

But Blaise didn't want to think about that. Not yet; they'd argue after they fucked – as was their custom – and he would do his thinking then. Right now – _oh yes_. Right now he would focus on the incredible sensation of her wicked hands trailing under his sleep pants.

"Did you miss me?" She whispered against his neck seductively, her teeth reaching up and scraping deliciously against the bend of his ear. Just how he liked. "I missed you," she informed. "But did you miss me?"

He moaned his unintelligible response, and allowed her to continue her glorious ministrations on his neck and lower regions. Merciful Merlin, she was a talented bloody witch. "_Fuck_," he breathed, his fingers digging into her hips, one hand trailing up her neck and holding her head against the side of his face, where he could all but _feel_ her smirk as she performed satanic acts with her tongue against the juncture of his shoulder.

"Take me to bed, Blaise," she instructed quietly. "Take me to bed and let me show you how much I missed you."

Oh, he dearly loved when she showed him things. She always had the most delightful things to show him, and they almost always ended up in blessed orgasms that he would nearly swear were from another world.

He wasted very little time in lifting her into his muscled arms, wrapping her long, beautiful legs around his waist as he suavely stumbled backward until he reached his bedroom door, where he boyishly fumbled with the knob as if he'd never taken a woman to bed in his life. Damn Gryffindor Granger and her sexual prowess.

"Bed, Blaise," she demanded softly.

He groaned. That was another thing. Granger never made demands in a harsh tone – but her soft orders were far more compelling. In bed, her orders were far more arousing when soft and low. Outside of bed, they were far more terrorizing, and he'd found that resistance was utterly futile.

He could deny her nothing.

"_Cazzo,_" he murmured – the Italian swear word slipping past his lips as his hands touched the silky black chemise she had thrown on before Apparating to his flat. The material glided beneath his fingers and he squeezed her breasts from above the fabric. She liked the feel of the silk rubbing against her.

Hermione moaned and straddled his waist, her experienced hands dancing exotic patterns across his bare chest, smoothing over his hard muscles as they quivered beneath her proficient explorations. "Blaise," she started slowly, her hands falling lower, lower still, and unknotted the tie of his pants as she drew them down, and out of her way, "I decided something today. Would you like to know what it was?"

He nodded, paying much more heed to the hand that was stroking his long length than to the mouth that delivered the words from her mouth directly into his ear. He fought to divide his attentions equally.

"You're a very knowledgeable man, Blaise. You're very… _skilled_," she purred deliciously, a lusty laugh escaping from her lips. Her ministrations never ceased. "Very skilled with your numbers and facts, indeed. And I decided that it was high-time I saw you out of your element, Blaise. And," she maintained that sultry, seductive voice as she lowered her lips to press kisses on any bit of flesh that she could reach, while her hand continued its dauntingly slow pace below his pants, "I considered that the best way to do that might be to… inform you of something that wouldn't make even a bit of sense to your statistics and numbers.

"Would you like to know how I know that it won't make sense, Blaise?" She asked casually, sucking diligently on the flesh beneath his ear. "Would you?" She repeated, digging her teeth into the spot and eliciting a sharp hiss from him before he dutifully nodded his head, albeit it jerkily. "Because you and I – we think similarly, baby. We like our facts and our books and our evidence. But this," she chuckled deprecatingly, "this doesn't make an ounce of sense."

Blaise growled as she moved his hands to the green silk pants that she'd worn to complete her ensemble of bedclothes, and he obediently began to drag them down, vaguely wondering what she was getting at. But he was willing to wait.

It was always better when he waited. He'd developed quite a sense for patience since Hermione had entered his life. She rewarded it quite appropriately.

"_Oh_," she breathed as his hands also lifted her top over her head, and moved back down to fondle and lavish her breasts. Hermione arched her back and pressed her breasts further toward him. He took a hint, and enveloped one in his mouth, her gasps of delight encouraging him pleasantly.

"_Yes_, that's so good, Blaise," she praised him, nails drawing down his chest and then digging into his sides as he bit her nipple between his teeth gently – or perhaps not-so-gently.

Blaise's hands trailed the length of her body from the bend of her neck, down the slope of her back, and the tantalizing curve of her hips until his palms grasped her backside firmly. Hermione took it from there.

"The thing is," she moaned as he performed another trick with his tongue, "I decided today that I love you," she said carelessly, crying out in distinct pleasure as she lowered herself onto his length in time with her words. "I decided that you've become very important to me, Blaise," she pressed, gasping as his hips rose against hers and his hands urged her to move more quickly from their place on her arse. "I decided," she said, leaning down to roughly sketch her lips over his, "that I need to have you – all of you – or this arrangement," she released a low keen as he touched a pleasurable spot inside of her, "simply will not work."

Blaise was not struggling to process her words. He wasn't. He was merely a bit more consumed by the feel of her wet heat surrounding him, taking him to familiar, yet entirely foreign places – new planes of pleasure and giddiness. She felt so terribly _good_ around him – her rhythmic pulsating, and her agile body bending into his, thrusting, absorbing as much pleasure as he.

And when she came – well, Merlin, he was helpless to resist following her lead. He was so utterly helpless, he was drowning.

And then the words hit him. And _then_ he was struggling to process them. Because she'd been right; those words did not conform to his numbers and statistics. They simply _did not_ process, and that was quite the troubling feeling. The words hovered about the room as she exhaustedly rested against him, her curly brown head tucked comfortably beneath his chin as if she hadn't just delivered life-altering news.

"You _what_?" He sputtered finally. "You – You _can't_. It's impermissible."

She laughed at him. A husky, sleepy laugh that entirely enraptured him – but she _laughed_ at him. "Blaise, darling, the problem with that is that I certainly never _gave_ permission. Apparently, this _love_ thing doesn't _ask_ for permission. It's an assailant. It attacks victims at their weakest and most vulnerable, and traps itself inside you like a disease," she yawned sleepily and snuggled her head more closely against his chest.

"You'd best not attempt to analyze it now," she advised wisely. "It simply can't be properly processed, I'm afraid. I tried for hours. I'm done," she rambled. "I want you, Blaise. That's not so difficult to say; I've been saying _those_ words for nearly a year. But I _love_ you? It's weird to incorporate that into your vocabulary, isn't it?"

Blaise's mind was backlogging. His tongue was thick in his mouth and he found that he could say very little – but she didn't seem to care just yet. She'd fallen asleep in a comfortable position against his chest, ranting on about her revelations and realizations, and she wanted him to _not_ worry? Did she know him at all?

Perhaps that was the problem. She _did_ know him. She knew he would worry, and calculate, and do the figures on this – but how the hell did one _calculate_ love into probabilities and percentages? He didn't even know what love _was_, except that it outweighed nearly everything in the world. He scowled. He couldn't possibly factor _love_ into the Arithmantic equation! It'd _never_ work out in his favor! He didn't need to do the damn stats to know that.

Hermione couldn't _love_ him. _Love_ almost invariably led to marriage and children and sharing houses – and as lovely as Hermione would look in a fancy, platinum engagement ring with children bustling at her feet, he most certainly was _not_ fit for fatherhood. Or for husbandhood, for that matter!

He was a Slytherin, damn it. He was a Slytherin who liked knowing his options, and he'd just felt several of his options disappear into thin air. He couldn't possibly let Hermione go. That was out of the question. But staying with her? He'd be forced to go public! She'd made that point relatively clear. He'd have to go public with the fact that he was in a relationship with Hermione Granger.

A _loving_ relationship.

Blaise wrinkled his nose in disgust, and he wholeheartedly felt that Hermione might have laughed herself silly if she'd heard him utter those words in that particular order.

But having Hermione in his head was the very last thing that he needed just now. He couldn't figure his alternatives with her in his head, repeating those fatal words in that casual, matter-of-fact tone that she'd had before impaling herself on him. He needed to think on his own, damn it!

"Blaise," Hermione's drowsy voice mumbled against his chest, in that same, soft tone that demanded things of him when he least expected them, "leave it alone. Sleep."

"Sleep," he scoffed. "You tell me you love me, then you want me to _sleep_?"

She remained quiet a moment longer, then nodded her head slowly. "Either you go to sleep, and I take that as your acceptance," she said lethargically, "or you stay up and consider your options and I'll take that to mean that you don't feel the same and are contemplating ways out of this mess. Now, I can tell you that I certainly prefer the former, but if you're looking for an easy out, this would be it."

"I – " Blaise started, unable to articulate his words.

Hermione stiffened in his arms, silent. She was almost never silent. Blaise found that he didn't like it. Not a bit. "I'm just –" He frowned, and mumbled, "I'm going to bed."

A half hour after Blaise had followed through with his promise, Hermione closed her eyes to fight the onslaught of thankful tears that threatened to overcome her. She pressed her lips to his chest once, and burrowed against him as adequately as she could, before muttering, "I love you," against his chest and falling asleep in his tender embrace.


End file.
